


King's Man

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (how do I tag that?), (mostly?), Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Angst and Porn, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Creepy, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Manipulation, Object Fellatio, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 19:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: He will not hurt me,Robb tells himself as Bolton presents the point of the blade before his eyes, letting him stare and bite his lip.I am his king, he is my vassal. I must trust this man.





	King's Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Robb/Roose: Robb likes to believe that those dark and secret times he shares at night with his bannerman is a token of weird affection and loyalty. [Because I can be a Troll obviously]."

He's surprised by a presence behind him, a body that does not press against his own, that barely even seems to emanate any heat, but only presents a hand before his eyes. Robb did not realise there was anyone in his tent. He swallows deeply. “You take liberties, Lord Bolton.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Bolton says as he reaches for Robb's laces, his voice not betraying a hint of amusement, or shame, or anything other men might feel about what they're doing.

Robb breathes shallowly, his cock already stirring at the faintest of touchest from those leather-clad hands. “Are you going to take my breeches off?” he asks, voice high and faltering.

A pause. “Would you rather I cut them away instead?”

Robb can't answer that, he simply moans, and Bolton makes a noise that could signify amusement. Still, he does unlace the breeches with hands surprisingly nimble through his thick gloves, and lets them fall down to Robb's ankles. Robb remains still as a statue.

Bolton takes a step back, leaving Robb untouched and exposed. “Step out of them, Your Grace,” he instructs, and Robb does so, kicking the pile of cloth away awkwardly. Bolton starts to pace, walking in front of Robb and examining him, like a butcher would a pig. Robb blushes like the green boy he is. “On your hands and knees.”

Robb falls to the ground, grass and rocks digging into the skin of legs and palms. He knows they should not be doing this now; it isn't yet dark enough, he can't be sure no-one will come to see him. And yet now they've started he hardly feels he has the power to stop. Roose's mouth quirks in what could be a smile, from another man. With his left hand, he bares the dagger on his hip from its scabbard.

 _No, not the dagger,_ thinks Robb as the sight of it sends blood rushing to his cock. He fears the knife as much as he craves it. _He will not hurt me,_ Robb tells himself as Bolton presents the point of the blade before his eyes, letting him stare and bite his lip. _I am his king, he is my vassal. I must trust this man._

Roose Bolton is not a man easy to trust, nor does his family history do him any favours, but Robb tells himself he must. He cannot afford to be looking over his shoulders at his bannermen, when he needs to be facing the Lannisters. Lord Bolton, for all his strangeness, has given no reason for Robb to truly doubt his loyalty.

Robb must trust him. Would he do such things with a man he did not trust?

Gently, Bolton glides the knife across his full lips in an idle criss-crossing pattern, teasing the skin without breaking it. Robb's mouth hangs open and he pants, his prick aching between his thighs. When Bolton nicks at the corner of his mouth, Robb moans aloud and laps the blood up greedily. The whole time he's staring into his bannerman's icy blue eyes, ensnared.

Bolton takes the scabbard from his hip, sheathing the blade once more. Robb whimpers in disappointment, but Bolton is not done. He spins the knife and offers the scabbard to Robb instead. Robb doesn't understand at first, but when Bolton presses it against his lips he parts them, takes the handle into his mouth.

At first Bolton moves the dagger in slow, shallow thrusts, barely grazing Robb's tongue. Robb moans softly as he starts to bob his head in return. Gradually, Bolton quickens his pace, forcing the scabbard in faster, deeper, until Robb starts to gag and choke as it hits the back of his throat.

He shudders at the thought of what an obscene sight he must be, on all fours like a dog, half-naked, fellating his bannerman's knife. But no-one can see him, except for Lord Bolton – and Robb tells himself he need not fear that.

Suddenly Bolton pulls the dagger away, leaving Robb gasping. He reattaches it to his belt with a look approaching satisfaction. He walks across the room and takes a chair, while Robb stares at him, longing. Bolton raises an eyebrow. “Come.”

Robb has not been told to stand, and so he crawls over, settling between Bolton's knees like a faithful pet. Mayhaps if he's obedient enough he'll be given the chance to suck the man's actual cock. Alas, not. “Up,” Bolton instructs, and Robb groans, standing shakily. Like this he towers over his bannerman, but Lord Bolton hardly seems unnerved. “Turn.”

He turns around, and soft hands take hold of his hips, guiding him down onto Bolton's lap. Robb sits upon the man's thigh like a child waiting for a story. “Good,” Bolton murmurs, and Robb shivers as the praise goes through him. He hears the snap of a leather glove removed, and then makes a choked noise as one of Bolton's fingers, wet with nothing but sweat, runs down the cleft of his arse.

Bolton circles the small, tight hole there, and Robb bites his lip, tensing. “Breathe, Your Grace,” he's told. “Relax. You know it will hurt less.”

Robb does know that. He also knows that Bolton could make it hurt less himself; there have been times he has used strange oils, smelling of something sweet gone rotten, to spread Robb open so wide he could fit anything in there. Candles, swordhilts, a leather-covered fist – even, on rare occasions, a cock. Robb tells himself Lord Bolton must be doing this for his sakes. After all, he rarely even seems to come during their encounters. Bolton must know how unnerving he can be, and has decided to use that in his king's favour, to satisfy his depraved desires so they need not haunt him any other time.

Robb does not suggest the oil; he just does as Bolton said, breathing deeply and trying to relax as one finger starts to breach his dry hole. He lets out a small cry as the digit just dips inside him, and outside his tent, Grey Wind makes a noise of alarm. Robb knows the wolf is guarding him, ready to protect him from any threat. But he cannot protect Robb from himself.

Finally, his muscle concedes and Bolton's long, smooth finger slides inside. Robb gasps, but the pain fades quickly, and Bolton knows how to crook and move his fingers to bring Robb pleasure. He knows Robb's insides very well by now. As the digit finds that secret centre of pleasure inside him, Robb moans and reaches for his cock.

Bolton pauses. “No.”

And so Robb lets go, even as his prick aches with how badly it needs touching. As if in reward, Bolton rubs inside him faster, and Robb gasps and rocks back into the movement, covering his mouth with his hand to keep the whole camp from hearing. He should not allow this, he should not allow any of it, but as always he is helpless to resist. _It does not matter. The man is my bannerman, he would not use this against me. He is loyal._

Robb rocks onto the finger inside him, bouncing up and down on a man's thigh like a twopenny harlot, and he bites his hand to keep from shouting when he spills – completely untouched, and making a mess of both his leather jerkin and his naked thighs. He sits there and tries to catch his breath, a sweaty, shaking mess.

Bolton is not so affected; gently, he pushes Robb off his finger and his leg, giving him no choice but to stand. When they face one another, Robb reads no hint of what's trespassed between them in his vassal's face. He never does. Bolton never stays afterwards either, to help Robb make his way back to his crown from this state of absolute submission. He simply nods respectfully to his king. “Your Grace.”

As Bolton walks out into the setting sun, Robb tells himself all is well. That he fears the man less now, not more.

 


End file.
